One more day! I feel like a kid on Christmas Eve right now! We've almost survived the worst hiatus in the history of hiatuses, folks!

Thank you so, so much to everyone who's left me such sweet reviews on my recent stories. Each of them made my day brighter. :)

This is a companion piece to my two earlier one shots, Fear and Doubt. If you haven't already, I'd love for you to check them out.

All usual disclaimers apply… I own nothing! Enjoy!

Exhaustion. Anxiety. Frustration. Anger.

All of those things seethed under McGee's surface. It had been several months since the bombing, many weeks since he'd been back to work. All the things he'd been wrestling so hard with during those months were still very present and very real. And he seemed to be the only one still struggling with the after effects.

Work went on just as before. Outwardly, the team fell back into their routines like nothing had happened to disrupt them in the first place. It frustrated him that he seemed to be the only one still shaken. And he was still shaken.

Every time he walked off that elevator and into the squad room, a knot formed in the pit of his stomach. It stayed there, writhing and coiling, until long after he'd gone home and left his work behind him. He'd have the mother of all ulcers before long at this rate.

He'd withdrawn, distancing himself from everyone. His team had noticed, he knew that. They worked together too closely not to have noticed. He saw the cautious, sideways glances they threw his way when they thought he wasn't looking, the furtive glances they exchanged between themselves behind his back.

Ziva was the only one to say something. She'd waited until Gibbs left for a coffee run and Tony went down to the vending machines to approach him. She'd circled around to the front of his desk and perched herself on the edge.

"Are you all right, McGee?" she'd asked in a low voice.

"Yeah," he'd responded quickly and a lot less convincingly than he would have liked.

"Are you certain?"

"I'm fine, Ziva," he insisted curtly.

"All right." He could see that she was still less than appeased. He saw the shadow of worry in her eyes, and he felt a sharp pang of guilt for being so abrupt with her. She didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of his anger. She was only trying to help.

"Ziva," he softened his tone, stopping her before she turned away. "Thanks."

She smiled and patted the side of his face. She hadn't brought it up again.

Intellectually, he recognized that he was dealing with post traumatic stress, but recognizing it did nothing to help him cope on a practical level.

Just earlier that week, he'd been at his desk when someone had let the top of the copier slam shut on the other end of the room. He'd nearly jumped out of his chair at the sudden, unexpected noise. His heart thundered rapidly, like it was going to burst right out of his ribcage. He'd broken out in a sweat. His hands had shaken and little points of light had exploded behind his eyes. For a few seconds, he'd honestly thought he was going to pass out.

Thankfully the others had been away from their desks when it happened so there were no witnesses to his embarrassment. He was mortified by his reaction.

He was angry. Angry that his mind and his body's reflexes were betraying him. Angry that they rebelled against him, and that all he seemed to be able to do was ride it out.

Panic led to embarrassment which led to frustration which led to anger. The helplessness he felt about all of it just further fueled his anger. It was a vicious downward spiral.

He was avoiding the "d" word at all costs, but, deny it all he wanted, it was staring him right in the face.

Depression. A black hole of depression that was growing continually deeper. A hole that he was having little success clawing his way out of.

It shouldn't be this hard. It just shouldn't. He should be able to let it go and get past it the way everyone else seemed to have done. Why was that so impossible for him?

A loud, relentless rapping at his door made him jump. That knock could only belong to one person. For a second or two, he considered ignoring it altogether, but he thought better of it. Knowing Tony, he'd stand out there and knock all night until he finally opened up.

McGee groaned and pushed himself off the couch. When he yanked the door open, Tony's fist was still suspended mid-knock. In his other arm, he was juggling a pizza box, a six pack of beer, and a bag full of DVDs.

"What, Tony?" He didn't know what DiNozzo was up to, but he dreaded it already.

"Well, hello to you, too," Tony said, completely unfazed by his less than welcoming reception. "You going to stand there and block the door or are you going to let me in before your neighbors start complaining about the noise?"

McGee stepped aside with a sigh. "Tony, I'm really not in the mood…"

"It's pizza, Probie!" Tony dropped his offerings unceremoniously on the coffee table. "You can't not be in the mood for pizza. It isn't humanly possible."

McGee rubbed his hand over his eyes. He could feel a headache coming on. With a vengeance. "DiNozzo, what do you want?" he snapped. "You're not just dropping by. You're up to something. Now what is it?"

"I'm hurt, McSkeptic," Tony said in his most innocent voice, indication enough that his initial suspicions were correct. "Can't a guy have pizza and beer with a buddy without having his motives questioned?"

He gave up. It was easier to just go along with it. Tony was like a virus… very hard to get rid of. And like a virus, he had to run his course. And he had to admit, the pizza did smell good. His stomach grumbled hungrily. Had he even eaten lunch? He didn't think so. The last thing he remembered eating was the dry toast he'd had with his coffee that morning.

"Come on," Tony cajoled, seeing that his resolve was weakening. "One movie. Just one and then I'll go."

"Fine. Whatever," he gave in ungracefully.

Tony grinned and popped open a beer, holding it out to him. "What's your viewing pleasure?" he asked when McGee dropped to the couch with the proffered drink in hand.

"I really don't care, Tony. Just pick something."

Tony put a disc in the player and plopped down on the other end of the couch, his feet propped on the coffee table like he owned the place.

McGee really couldn't have said what was playing… some Spencer Tracy film that Tony said was a classic. It wasn't exactly his cup of tea. Despite his lack of attention to the movie, he finished his first piece of pizza and reached for a second. He had to admit that it was kind of nice to have the distraction of Tony's company… not that he'd ever tell him that. It kept him from wallowing in the unpleasant maze that was his mind these days.

Tony's presence was undemanding. They sat in silence for the most part, interrupted randomly by the occasional movie trivia from Tony. It wasn't until the credits rolled that he proved McGee's initial suspicions correct. He had a motive for being here even if he'd tried to deny it at first.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Tony's question was sincere, no traces of teasing or humor to be found. There was no preface to his inquiry either. It didn't need one. There was no doubt about what he was referring to.

The thought of letting his guard down and confiding in Tony was no more appealing now than it had been when he'd considered it before. It was strange. Too strange. He'd conditioned himself to the teasing and hazing from him. To have Tony genuinely concerned for him was disconcerting.

"No. I don't."

"Okay," Tony said easily, not appearing offended, or even surprised, at his blunt refusal. "But the offer stands if you change your mind."

"Thanks," McGee said succinctly.

"Up for another movie?" Tony asked, thankfully changing topics.

McGee chuckled humorlessly. "Why not."

Throughout the movie, Tony's offer kept repeating through his mind. He never thought he'd be tempted to take Tony into his confidence, but he didn't have a whole lot of options. Tony didn't have to come here. He didn't have to stay. He didn't have to put up with his sour attitude. Yet there he was, going out of his way to be a friend. What could it hurt? Especially now.

"I filled out the papers to request a transfer," he said without preamble.

Tony's neck snapped around to look at him. "Okay… I have to admit, that wasn't what I was expecting to hear." He paused. "Can you tell me why?" There was no judgment in his voice, only concern and curiosity.

The movie played on in front of him, but nothing registered. It was little more than background noise. Tony waited patiently for him to find the words.

"It's not getting any easier," he admitted finally. He had to force the words out. They seemed to be stuck halfway in his throat. "I thought if I gave it time, it wouldn't be so hard…"

"That what wouldn't be so hard?" Tony questioned when he didn't continue.

"Being in that room every day. Walking past those windows and not expecting them to explode. Working a case and wondering what I'm missing, just like I missed Dearing's intent with the bomb. Wondering if something I'm overlooking is going to cost lives. I didn't see it…"

"None of us saw it," Tony interjected firmly. "That's not on you. The only one responsible is Dearing, and he won't ever hurt anyone again."

"I know that. I know that I'm not to blame. I know that there was nothing else I could have done. I knew just what to say to pass the psych evals. I know all the right words. I know it. But I can't make myself believe it."

Tony nodded thoughtfully. "You know, you're not the only one who's still trying to find your footing again." Rarely did Tony show this side of himself. He was utterly serious, opening up and letting McGee see a more vulnerable aspect of his character. That had happened only a precious few times in all the years they'd been partnered together.

"Aren't I? You all seem to be doing just fine." Bitterness seeped from every word. He couldn't help it.

"We got knocked down… hard. And we're all coping in different ways. Just because you don't see it doesn't mean it's not true. We were hit right inside our front door. We lost some of our own. That's not something you just shake off like it's nothing."

McGee swallowed hard. "So how do you get past it?" His voice was rough and raw.

"You pick yourself up off the floor… one piece at a time if you have to, and you move on. It's not easy, but it's the only choice we've got."

"And what about the next time? Or the time after that? What happens when there aren't enough pieces of yourself left to pick up?"

"You can't let yourself think like that. It won't do any good. All that matters right now is right now." He took a deep breath, and when he spoke next his voice was softer. "You've been through a trauma, McGee. No one expects you to just bounce back like nothing ever happened. It takes time."

"I don't think that time is going to help anything. It's just as bad now as it was my first day back. I'm wondering if I've been kidding myself by thinking it'll ever get better."

Tony looked down at the floor, seeming to search for words. "Where are you requesting the transfer to?"

McGee shrugged listlessly. "I'm not sure. I just don't think I need to be out in the field anymore."

"Why?" Tony questioned, shaking his head. "Why would you think that?"

It took a few minutes to find the words, but still Tony didn't push, just waited for his answer.

"I don't think my head's on straight. I'm worried that I'll screw up, get myself hurt, or worse, not be on my game and let one of you get hurt when I'm supposed to have your back. I'm worried about being a liability. That's the last thing I want."

"You know Gibbs would never let that happen. If he was worried, he'd pull you out of the field himself." McGee didn't respond. Tony continued when he remained silent. "You know, you've got plenty of personal time stockpiled. Maybe you should use some of it. Take some time off until you feel better about things."

McGee sighed heavily. "I just don't know, Tony. I don't know anymore."

"Don't you?" Tony's voice was firmer now, more intent. "You love what you do. You thrive on it. And all teasing aside, you're damn good at it." He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. "Be honest with yourself. Are you really going to be satisfied stuck behind a desk for the rest of your career? You fought to get here. You fought to stay here. You fought to gain respect. Are you really going to walk now?"

McGee didn't answer. He wasn't really sure what to say.

"You said you filled out the papers." It was somewhere between a question and a statement.

"Yes."

"Have you turned them in?"

The silence hung heavy between them. "No," he admitted finally.

"Are you going to?" McGee couldn't quite identify the tone in his voice. It was almost hesitant, like he wasn't really sure he wanted the answer.

"I'm not sure yet." Try as he might, he couldn't raise his voice above a whisper.

"Just do one thing before you make that decision." He could feel Tony's eyes on him, but he didn't look up.

"If I can," he said noncommittally.

"Be sure. It's your call, but before you do anything, think hard about how hard you worked to get where you are, and be absolutely, one hundred percent sure that walking away is the right thing to do. Don't do anything now that you will eventually regret. If you let Dearing stay inside your head like this, if you let him take this away from you, then he wins. Take some time off. Get some help if you need it, but don't let him win." Tony spoke slowly, enunciating every word forcefully.

"I'm not letting him do anything, Tony," he spat, growing defensive.

"Good. Keep it that way."

"Now you do me a favor," he demanded. "Don't say anything. To anyone. Not about the transfer, not about anything we talked about."

"Not a word," Tony agreed immediately.

He released a heavy sigh. "Thank you."

"All right," Tony slapped his hands on his knees. The solemnity was gone. He was back to his typical self. "I'll get out of your hair now. Thanks for not kicking me out."

"Did I actually have a choice?" he asked, following Tony to the door.

Tony grinned widely. "Nope. You know," he drawled out, his hand on the doorknob. "I've finally almost got you trained after all these years. It'd really suck to have to start from scratch with a new probie." Tony's hand made contact with the back of his head, but there was no force behind it. It was almost affectionate.

McGee snorted. "Goodbye, Tony."

"Hey," Tony turned back and blocked the door as McGee started to shut it behind him. "You know I've got your six, right?" The question was quiet, but it was sincere.

A half smile tipped the corners of McGee's mouth, the first one that evening. "I know, Tony. I know."

"See you in the morning, Probie."

It was eerily quiet after Tony left, but everything he'd said still echoed in McGee's head. One of the most irritating things about Tony was that he was right more often than he was wrong. Not that he would ever admit that to him. His ego would be unbearable… even more so than it was already.

And after so many years working together, Tony knew him obnoxiously well. The jokes, the hazing, the immaturity, it was all a part of what made Tony who he was. So when he dropped the veneer and really shot straight, it made McGee stop and think.

And ultimately Tony was right. Leaving wasn't what he truly wanted, but he didn't feel like he had any other options. He realized that pressure wasn't coming from outside sources, it was all on him. In his mind, he could either leave on his own terms, or suffer the humiliation of being "reassigned" by his superiors on down the line when he continued to have difficulty doing his job. That was his perception, not necessarily the reality. The rational part of his mind knew that.

He was just so tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of feeling the way he did. But would leaving really change that? Deep inside he knew it wouldn't. It might even make things worse.

If he left, he'd be admitting that he couldn't handle the repercussions of what had happened. He'd be admitting defeat, and that was something he'd have to live with for the rest of his life. He'd be giving up his support system and walking away from a job that he'd dreamed of and people that he loved. Could he do that? When it came right down to it, could he truly leave?

Gritting his teeth, he crossed the room to his desk. He snatched up the papers that had been staring at him like a living presence for the past several days. The sound those papers made as he fed them to his shredder was incredibly loud in his silent apartment. But, in a way, it was satisfying.

He knew it wouldn't be easy to return to normal. And maybe normal would never be exactly what it was before the attack. The events of the last few months had changed him. But he had too much to lose not to keep fighting to get there.

He was damaged, yes. But he was not broken.

Here's how nit-picky I am about getting my details straight… I don't actually think McGee has a couch in his apartment. And the only television I noticed was in his bedroom… but considering I don't personally ship Tim and Tony, I wasn't going there. ;) Hopefully you'll forgive me for the inconsistency!

Thanks for reading!